


Only the Best

by HawkMoth



Series: And All the Years They Fly [3]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Classic Doctor Who References, Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Spin-off references, The Doctor on His Own, The Farewell Tour, Tribute, Written 10/1/2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkMoth/pseuds/HawkMoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tick tock goes the clock...</i>
</p><p>But time won't stop for moments like this...and the journey won't always go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Best

**Author's Note:**

> The third and final part of this series, but it could have happened at any time during The Farewell Tour. The original idea changed after seeing spoilers for The Wedding of River Song, and having my mind blown by seeing the episode. But it had to be written.
> 
> And yes, I'm not warning for a specific thing. The other tags should give sufficient hints. This is not a happy story.

******

One thing the Doctor keeps telling himself, is that this is _not_ like before. He may be dangerous on his own, but he's learned the proper lesson, therefore it will not be like last time (which was so very, very bad). This time he's on a schedule of sorts, with an appointment to keep. There are things he wants to do, things he _must_ do.

And there are other things which just happen.

******

Some days he's having more fun than he deserves; some days he feels that he's accomplished nothing and should just hole up in the TARDIS until they reach that point of no return. (He is not brooding, he _is not_ brooding. He's entitled to feel just a wee bit sorry for himself, isn't he?) He's simply reflecting, that's all. Images come to mind--Cho-Je's serene, smiling face, and a distant mountaintop bathed in orange light. Memories which bring less pain than they used to.

Still, not brooding, just thinking; but it's best if he does it locked away in his box, safe in the Vortex, away from people.

He prowls about deep within the TARDIS, sits in the library for hours on end, opens doors to rooms that probably shouldn't exist. (Other rooms, not that he's looking for them, seem to have been archived or deleted.) He can almost feel the TARDIS peering over his shoulder. "Thanks, dear, but if I wanted a Zero Room I would have asked for one." (And if the kareoke bar is an attempt to cheer him up, well, perhaps she's in need of a serious overhaul.)

He's in the kitchen, drinking yet another cup of tea, when he feels a tingle and suddenly the psychic paper is burning a hole in his pocket. He whips it out but it's blank. He stares at it intently, willing it to show words. Still blank.

Then, in the distance, he hears the phone ring. Which is impossible, because he disconnected it ages ago, not wanting any distractions on his tour. But there it is, ring-ring-ring. He races to the console room and as he clatters down the stairs it stops. The answer machine never even picked up. He looks and the wires are still disconnected. 

Something is very wrong. Someone is trying to get his attention, and failing.

Right on cue, then, the scanner emits an ear-spitting crackle and lights up. He's almost afraid to look; it could be that his enemies--the Silence, Kovarian, whoever else hates him so very much--have decided to cut to the chase and deal with him now. But there's only a soft multicolored swirl on the screen, and then a voice; tinny, hollow and instantly recognizable.

"Master? Master? Please respond, Master."

A momentary disbelief floods through the Doctor, and then shock. His little tin dog--every version--was programmed with a limited range of emotional responses; but he cannot remember ever hearing such a level of sheer desperation.

"K-9? What is it, boy?"

"Please respond, Master."

He pounds the screen, turns the knobs in a panic. "I'm here, K-9!"

"Oh, Master..." The voice fades, the screen goes blank.

"No, no!" Nothing works, the scanner's gone dead. The Doctor shoves it aside and braces himself on the console. "C'mon, old girl, what is it? What's happening?" he pleads. Her constant hum falters. If she's trying to tell him something he can't make it out.

There's another terrible crackling noise and a shower of sparks from beneath the console. Instinctively, _stupidly_ , he ducks under to look and falls back on his arse in surprise. "What--what?"

It can't be there. The Space Telegraph. Part of a desktop long, long gone. He knows it immediately, even though it now more closely resembles a twenty-first century Earth fax machine. It sputters and chatters and spews out what looks like a newspaper reprint.

His hand shakes as he tears the sheet off. Some of the print is smeared. London, 2011 or 12; he can't make it out. But other words are stark and clear and easy to read. Words that explode in his mind, making no sense.

It's not true. It can't be true. How could he not know? The failed messages must have had different time-space origins, and were deflected by something in the Vortex, causing them all to arrive at once. It didn't matter when it happened in linear time, or relative to the twisted timeline he's been following--but how could he not have felt it?

How could he not be aware that there was a Sarah Jane Smith-shaped hole in the Universe?

His vision blurs and then goes black....

***

He doesn't remember standing. He doesn't remember walking. Somehow he's in a corridor leaning against a door. "Oh, no. Please, no," he whispers. Not her room, it's been gone for years...the door swings open and he tumbles inside, unable to catch himself. "No..."

It's the Wardrobe. Or one of them. Never constant, always changing where they are and what's inside. This one is dark and shadowed, a pale light filtering from somewhere. There's a clothes cupboard in front of him, doors open. Something impossible hangs inside--Andy Pandy red-striped overalls, a shaggy white sweater-coat. 

"No, no, no!" The Doctor throws his head back, staring wildly into the empty air above. "I don't need any more guilt, thank you very much!"

He collapses to the floor, leaning against the cold, hard wood of the cupboard. His mind still shies away from the words in the paper, but he has the gist of it. His Sarah Jane, gone, fighting the good fight until the end. (They were all good, weren't they? But hadn't she been the very best of all?)

His head falls, and he lets the tears come. When he finally looks up, minutes or hours later, the light is brighter, the cupboard is empty, and he knows it's time to carry on.

***  
Later, a bit of a damp, sorry mess, he stands in the console room, making a decision. He doesn't dare go forward or backtrack in order to attend any service or memorial for his dearest of friends. Although he's been a bit reckless flitting in and out of Time, he won't risk causing harm to her friends or undoing any of her work. The shadowy forces at play all around him don't need another target.

He can, however, make sure some things are right. With the utmost care and discretion, he taps into Mr. Smith's mainframe. He is instantly reassured--Sarah had contingency measures long in place to provide for Luke's future, and to keep all their friends and Earthly contacts safe. He does insert a few files, with names and contact information, flagged for Luke's attention when they might be needed. He also leaves a brief message of condolence for the young man, and a special one to be forwarded to K-9, that good and faithful companion.

In a quick scan of the attic room, which thankfully is empty, his attention is caught by one picture out of many on the walls. His third self and Sarah Jane, shoulder to shoulder and smiling. He thinks it must be from a UNIT Christmas party. Shamelessly he makes a copy, and when the TARDIS prints it out, he holds it and feels the ache inside him recede ever so slightly.

"Oh, Sarah. Didn't we run?"

******

**Author's Note:**

> My tribute to commemorate my first Companion, Sarah Jane Smith, and the always splendid Elisabeth Sladen. God bless.
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated. Please ask if you'd like the references to the Old School Who explained! (If I can remember all the exact details.)


End file.
